


A Penny Earned

by abstractconcept



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, Light Sadism, M/M, Object Insertion, Orgasm Denial, sounds a bit dark with those tags but it's actually not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-09
Updated: 2006-09-09
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All relationships are based on growth, and even a penny is worth something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Penny Earned

**Author's Note:**

> BETAS: The Excellent empathic_siren, Marvellous mecklen and the Lynx-eyed littleroo27, and all further mistakes are my own.  
> NOTES: For the ronlucius inaugural challenge; kennahijja's prompt: Ron and Lucius are together, and Lucius wants to introduce Ron to handling power/influence/wealth. A grown-up Ron plot. Concrit/reviews/whatever welcome.

“How much did you spend on that hideous thing?”   
  
Ron felt his face heat up. “It was my money.” He threw his new set of purple robes over the back of a chair. “So what do you care?”   
  
“Do you have any idea how awful those colours are on you?”   
  
“It’s Harry’s new team,” Ron said defensively. “And I want to support him.”   
  
“How much did they cost?” Lucius repeated.   
  
“None of your business!”   
  
“You just got your paycheque from the Ministry today, so I assume it was more than you had in the bank.”   
  
“So what? _It isn’t your money_.”   
  
“This is why you never get ahead. If you had put just some of that money into savings, you could have purchased your revolting purple monstrosity _next_ weekend and had a bit of interest to show for it.”   
  
“I couldn’t,” Ron disputed. “Reason being, I’ll never have any interest in money matters. And if I don’t have interest, I can’t _earn_ interest. It’s not a big deal. I’m doing fine.”   
  
“You’re barely keeping your head above water. You’re stubborn, stupid, and absolutely the most frustrating—”   
  
“Why the hell do you put up with me, then?”   
  
“Well, you do suck cock skilfully, I’ll give you that.” After a moment, Lucius sighed. “I know you have pride. I know all _about_ pride. I am pride incarnate. So I do understand how you feel.”   
  
Ron relaxed fractionally.   
  
“But even more than wanting my pride, I want to share a life with you, to share my difficulties with you, to always have someone to turn to. Don’t you want that, too?” Lucius inquired, his expression particularly innocent.   
  
Even though he knew better, Ron felt a sense of shame steal over him. Lucius was _probably_ only trying to help. Ron nodded silently.   
  
“Then let me make this _our_ problem. Allow me to help you understand the complexities and nuances of finance. Let me build on the fine young man you are, and mould you into something even better.”   
  
Ron stiffened. “Why? Am I not good enough the way I am?”   
  
“There is, as always, room for improvement.”   
  
Ron rolled his eyes and went to the fireplace, snatching the small cloisonné vase and tipping a bit of Floo powder into his palm. There was a strange blank spot above the fireplace, and Ron realized that the Peruvian Vipertooth was gone. It was just as well, he supposed—he’d always felt like the dratted thing was staring at him.   
  
“Where are you going?” Lucius demanded, his voice suddenly sharp.   
  
Ron would have liked to retort, ‘Out,’ and leave the man without another word, but Lucius did not tolerate that sort of treatment. Instead the young man grated, “For a drink. We both know all of this is ready to snowball into another big damned fight, and I don’t want to fight tonight. So I’m going to go drink until I’m nice and mellow. I’ll see you later.”   
  
Lucius grunted.   
  
As Ron stepped into the flames, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the man’s lips were pinched tightly together.   
  
He should have known right then that he was in for it.

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
When Ron returned to the Manor, his footsteps unsteady on the polished hardwood floor, he made his way to the bedroom only to discover he’d been locked out. For a long moment he considered beating a fist on the door, reminding Lucius that it was only thanks to Ron’s own intervention that the man wasn’t still rotting in Azkaban. After a few deep breaths, however, Ron realized that drunken shouting would do more damage to his dignity than Lucius’ obstinacy.   
  
Instead he went to kip in one of the many guestrooms, wondering if and when the dispute would end, and who would be the first to bend. He sighed, passing a hand over tired eyes, wishing he could drift off, wishing Lucius weren’t so stubborn, wishing _he_ weren’t so stubborn. While their relationship was exciting, Ron had to admit that its volatile nature could be very trying. But other times, Lucius could be...well, nice enough. Not exactly _nice_ ; perhaps that was the wrong word, but he could be sort of relaxed, in a smooth, chilly way.   
  
Ron remembered the day he’d first moved in with Lucius, and Harry’s gift to them. He presented a Muggle coin (one penny), a tongue-in-cheek observation of Lucius’ love of material wealth.   
  
Lucius had taken it in stride. He'd conjured a frame for it, then set it on one of the Manor’s ridiculously large mantles. When Ron asked why, Lucius had responded, “I rather like it. It gleams the very colour of your hair.”   
  
Ron had flushed.   
  
Lucius had smiled seductively, gliding from the room. “Someday I’ll have _you_ framed, as well, my pet.”   
  
Harry had immediately turned to Ron when the man was out of earshot. “He’s already had _me_ framed,” he remarked morosely. “He’ll have you framed, all right—and hung, if you’re not careful. What do you _see_ in that old pervert? He treats you like...like you’re an _object_. He treats you like he _owns_ you.”   
  
It was difficult to explain. “Yeah...I guess he treats me like he owns me, but he treats me like I’m worth something, too,” Ron replied.   
  
Harry had looked at him quizzically.   
  
“Well, with a person, how do you measure their value? How do you know if someone feels you’re ‘worth’ something? In my family, there were too many kids, and there just wasn’t enough attention to go around, so _nobody_ ever ended up feeling like they were particularly special. But...with him, he treats me like...like a fine racing broom. Something he takes pride in. Something worth taking care of. Something he _values_ , you understand?”   
  
He knew Harry _couldn’t_ understand, though. Harry had always been singled out, for good or ill. He’d never been just another ginger haired child in a room full of ginger haired children. There was something inherently exceptional about Harry. Even when he was in a room full of people, his figure seemed to leap to the front, to stand out brighter and more clear against the background of the humdrum general public. Harry never really understood that of all the things that made Ron feel like he didn’t measure up, Harry himself was at the top of the list.   
  
After the war, Harry got to go be a Quidditch hero. All he had to do was nod to the crowd, and everyone went screaming mad. Meanwhile, Ron had got nothing but a desk job, a steady paycheque and unrelenting boredom. The only thing interesting in Ron’s life was being on Lucius Malfoy’s review board. And one day, Ron had just sort of lost it. He’d granted Malfoy’s parole, and Hermione went along with it because she believed in second chances, and the other witch who’d been assigned his case was overruled because majority won out, and Lucius Malfoy was back on the streets again.   
  
Ron had stalked him in the early days. He hadn’t believed for a second that Malfoy had changed. He just wanted a good, clean chance to kill the man. Just once, wand on wand, no punches pulled. Sooner or later, Malfoy was _bound_ to step out of line, and Ron would be right there, waiting. Then Ron would finally be the hero. Ron would be the one who mattered.   
  
But it hadn’t worked out that way. Lucius had caught him out—probably knew about it right from the start—and since Lucius couldn’t hex his parole officer, he did the next best thing. He invited Ron in for dinner, to prove what a good boy he’d become. And Ron had gone, because everyone knew what dark objects Malfoy Manor was rumoured to contain, and if he could just get proof...   
  
Instead, he’d got a glass of wine. Ron was fond of good wine, although he couldn’t afford it very often. At the end of the evening, Lucius had sent him away, saying they ought to do it again sometime, and Ron, having found nothing incriminating, seized the next chance he got, and the next, and the next, and the next—until one bottle turned into two, bottles turned into fireside discussions of family and honour, discussions turned to arguments, turned to shouting, to expensive drinks spilt on the rugs, to shoving to hands-hands-hands _everywhere_ , with teeth and tongues to follow. Turned to bedrooms. Turned to sunlight on Lucius’ hair. Turned to breakfasts on the veranda in the breezy autumn mornings, Ron watching the Gryffindor leaves of red and gold flutter to the ground, while Lucius—watched _him_.   
  
Maybe everyone still looked at Harry. Maybe everyone still wanted Harry.   
  
But Lucius looked at Ron the same way most people looked at Harry. Ron rolled over onto his stomach. Lucius was acquisitive, grubbing, and downright nasty. He was also absolutely unapologetic. Ron was never completely sure whether he was exasperated, or just impressed by the man. But he knew that Lucius desired him, knew by the way the man’s eyes would darken and the way he wet his lips. For now, that was enough for him.

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
The next morning, he joined Lucius sitting at the breakfast table. The man was absorbed in his _Fortune-Telling and Finance_ , and Ron dropped into a seat, snatched up an orange and started peeling. Lucius would talk when he was good and ready. And anyway, Ron wasn’t going to be the first to break the silence. Let Lucius make the first overtures.   
  
After about twenty minutes of silence, Ron was drumming his fingers on the table, his foot tapping nervously against his chair leg. He hated the stifling silence. He’d never encountered anything like it, and didn’t know quite how to handle things. At home, there were too many people to ever notice just one giving you the cold shoulder. Fred and George could never have managed it anyway, and they talked enough for six people. And at school, Ron was always surrounded by large groups of people, and that tended to eat up even the most persistent silent treatment.   
  
Here in the Manor, it was different. The house was still, and all was quiet save the birds chirping distantly outside. There was no Fred or George to jape or make a goofy face, no lecture from Ron’s mum in response. There was just the crackle of newspaper pages.   
  
At last, a house elf delivered the _Daily Prophet_ , and Ron snatched it up gratefully. Still the heavy noiselessness ate away his concentration, and he found himself reading the same sports blurb over and over again, not making sense of it at all. He flipped through the pages, sighing. “There was a hurricane off the coast of Indonesia,” he finally said, his voice wobbling a little with nerves. “You should owl Draco.”   
  
“He’d only turn it away,” Lucius replied mildly. Ron relaxed a little. Maybe the worst was over—at any rate, the silence was, and he abhorred silence more than the loudest argument.   
  
“Just the same, I’d like to know that he’s all right,” Ron muttered.   
  
The financial paper slowly sank until Lucius’ amused eyes met his own. “You’re such a fussy stepmother,” the man remarked, the paper rising once more.   
  
Ron flushed. “I didn’t say I wanted to have tea with him, I just said I hope he isn’t dead. I hope a _lot_ of people aren’t dead. Doesn’t mean I care about them. ‘S just the morally right thing to do, hoping they’re not dead.”   
  
Lucius snorted genteelly. “Well, I wouldn’t worry over Draco, in any case. He’s more than a match for any tropical disturbance. Bit of a tropical disturbance himself when he’s in a mood, actually.”   
  
Ron smiled a little. Sometimes when Lucius talked about Draco, he sounded nearly human. Ron looked down at his barely touched food. “I should have tried harder,” he remarked.   
  
“Nonsense. So he refuses to speak to me. So he’s run off. He’s fine where he is—wherever he is. He’s grown into a resourceful boy, learned to make his way without my assistance, and since he’s distanced himself from me, they won’t—” Lucius suddenly cut off.   
  
“What?”   
  
“Never mind.”   
  
They didn’t speak again until they’d finished eating, when Lucius carefully folded his newspaper, placed it beside his plate, and looked at Ron expectantly. “I’ve made a decision,” the man announced.   
  
Ron sat back, looking wary. “Yeah? Let me guess; you’re going to cut me off. Stop spending money on me. Make me earn my own way.”   
  
“No,” Lucius replied curtly. “On the contrary. I’m giving you an expense account.”   
  
Ron boggled at this. “You—what?” His face began to crease, frowning with a mixture of suspicion and thought. “Why?”   
  
“Because I want you to understand the value of a Galleon. I will put in a specified amount of money, and you will be expected to _increase_ that amount—by the end of the month. You will have at hand all the financial periodicals, manuscripts and advisors I have access to.”   
  
Ron blinked. “What happens if, er, the money doesn’t increase by the end of the month?” he asked.   
  
Lucius smiled coldly. “I am _certain_ that this will not be so. Just to be positive, there will be particular...incentives.”   
  
At the look on the man’s face, Ron squirmed in his seat a little. The expression reminded him too much of Lucius’ pre-Azkaban days, when all the man wanted out of life was to make someone else’s miserable. Ron was pretty sure Lucius really had reformed—he’d been with the man for almost six years without noticing any homicidal tendencies or things of that nature—but there were times when he was reminded that Lucius hadn’t joined Voldemort because he had to. He’d done it because he craved power. He’d done it for his very skewed moral system. Worst of all, he’d done it because he enjoyed it.   
  
Ron took a deep breath. “We agreed that you would be an upstanding and law-abiding citizen if and when you left Azkaban,” he said. “So why is it that I have warning bells going off in my head about all of this?”   
  
“I really can’t imagine,” Lucius responded with quiet satisfaction. “I promise that I intend to break no laws, and will adhere to the guidelines and regulations specified at my parole hearing.” He offered the financial paper to Ron with a sweet smile. “Now, I suggest you begin studying.”

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
Ron felt Lucius’ open mouth against his shoulder, sucking gently. “Mmmm. Feels good,” he murmured, opening one eye.   
  
He could almost feel the man’s lips slide into a grin. “Does it?”   
  
A hand burrowed between Ron’s chest and the mattress, looking for a nipple to tweak. He smiled sleepily, rolling onto his side to give Lucius better access to his body. “Oh, yeah,” he replied.   
  
“Oh, good.” Lucius voice was like some sort of liquor, heating and heady and heavenly. His breath licked Ron’s ear, and his fingers gripped the hem of Ron’s shirt, tugging until it was rucked up under the young man’s arms. Ron quivered slightly as he was exposed. He looked over to the Louis the XIV mirror that hung across from the bed, only to discover it was gone.   
  
“When’d you get rid of the mirror? Thought you liked it,” he mumbled as Lucius’ tongue grazed his Adam’s apple.   
  
The man ignored him completely.   
  
Now both of Lucius’ hands went to work, exploring, smoothing and working over Ron’s frame as though Lucius was a sculptor and Ron his opus. Every rib was traced, fingertip by fingertip, every freckle lovingly caressed, collarbones grazed with delicate movements, fingernails riding slim pectorals and scraping their way down Ron’s stomach.   
  
Ron arched into the man’s touch, an inarticulate moan rising from his throat. Lucius laughed softly at the sound, both hands converging over the growing erection covered by Ron’s smalls. Ron’s hips lifted from the bed, rocking himself into Lucius’ open palms.   
  
Lucius worked a hand under the elastic of Ron’s pants, his elegant movements put to the basest use as he encircled Ron’s cock, fondling it lovingly. Ron sighed happily, his head turning so his lips and teeth had access to Lucius’ jaw.   
  
Ron writhed, held by Lucius, the warmth of the man’s grip, the smoothness of his hand, the gentle hisses of breath against the back of Ron’s neck.   
  
It all felt so good.   
  
It felt _too_ good.   
  
And then, suddenly, it stopped.   
  
Ron blinked, then blinked again, just to make sure his sleep-addled mind hadn’t just fabricated the whole thing, but no, there were still two pale, immaculate, well-manicured hands, one cupping his balls, the other wrapped sinuously around his prick.   
  
“Whaaa?” he gurgled, shifting and trying to butt himself into Lucius’ grasp.   
  
The hands were removed.   
  
“I looked over a report of your earnings today.” The words had no meaning to Ron, and he looked over his shoulder, his brow creased. “There were none. In fact, so far as I could tell, nothing has been done. No investments, no movement of money, no withdrawals...very disappointing,” Lucius’ silvery voice said.   
  
Ron tried to sit up. He seemed to be having trouble with his motor skills, not to mention difficulty in thinking clearly. “What are you saying?”   
  
“You’ve let me down, my dear,” Lucius replied. “I expected better from you. You were always there for your darling _Harry._ Why is it that you can’t do the simplest thing at my request?”   
  
Ron’s face heated rapidly. “Shut up. Don’t go bringing Harry into this. What the hell is your problem, anyway?”   
  
“I asked you for one little thing—a bit of effort. You’ve done _nothing_.”   
  
“You’re _obsessed_ with money!” Ron roared, tumbling out of bed, gaining his feet, and wrapping the 800 count bed sheets round his waist and hiding his raging erection. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”   
  
Lucius glared, and Ron envisioned his pupils slitted like those of a snake. It didn’t take much imagination. “You do as I say, or you do not get what you want,” the man replied.   
  
Ron sucked in a deep breath, but could find no coherent argument. It didn’t help that the demand and regal demeanour turned him on _more._ Instead of trying to appeal to the man’s better nature (since when had Lucius had any?) Ron whirled and stomped to the bedroom door.   
  
Fuck this. Fuck all of this, and Lucius Malfoy most of all.   
  
Ron went to the Manor’s library. There were enough insipid books in there to dull even the most persistent of erections.

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
The next evening, Ron sat in the pub with his chin resting glumly in one hand, a mug of ale in the other, pondering. The worst thing about it was that there was no one to complain to. Hermione had been permanently traumatized when Ron had come out of the closet. He’d known about her feelings, but had always felt it politer not to say anything. His family was so angry that he’d taken up the cause of Lucius Malfoy that they’d nearly disowned him, and relations were still chilly. Harry was still a bit hurt that Ron had become involved with one of his sworn enemies, though he was strangely more accepting than most people Ron knew.   
  
But the point was, Ron reflected as he sipped from his glass, that there was no one he could discuss things with. And after all, what could he say? ‘Lucius is being a bastard?’ When _wasn’t_ he? That was sort of the _point_ of Lucius Malfoy, Ron reckoned.   
  
By midnight, Ron had had enough to drink. He hadn’t managed to make his troubles go away, but he had certainly fulfilled any ambition he’d ever had of getting so shit-faced that he stumbled along at a severe tilt in public. At least the small, dark pub in Knockturn Alley offered anonymity, cheap drinks, and the comforting murmurs of conversation all round.   
  
As Ron made his way to the Floo he began to have second thoughts. His stomach wouldn’t be able to handle that sort of thing right now. Maybe if he went outside for a bit, got some fresh air...   
  
“I dun need him,” he mumbled as he lurched along. He was Ron Weasley. He’d helped Harry Potter defeat the Dark Lord. He was a veritable god among men, if, at the moment, a rather pissed one.   
  
He wanted sex. He wasn’t sure he could perform, but he wanted it. It had only been a week and-a-half, but a week and-a-half filled with spankings and touches and orgasm-denial was driving him straight up the wall. A week and-a-half without Lucius was like two years without someone else. Lucius had always managed to take regular sex, regular passion, and sort of _concentrate_ it, until it was stunning, searing and wonderful. He could leave Ron’s every nerve-ending tingling, leave him dizzy and spent, satisfied in a way no one else had ever managed.   
  
“Need a ride home?”   
  
Ron looked up. There was a bloke nearby, leaning on his broomstick, a crooked smirk on his face. Or Ron was just seeing crooked—it was really hard to tell. As far as Ron could make out, considering he’d developed a really nasty case of double vision, the bloke was handsome and blond.   
  
And leering at Ron, which was a big bonus.   
  
“Sure thing, beautiful,” he purred, clutching at the man and desperately trying to totter forward, rather than sideways.   
  
The stranger was utterly composed, taking Ron’s arm and assisting him onto the broom.   
  
They only had to stop twice for Ron to be ill.   
  
When they arrived back at the Manor, the handsome bloke again seemed to leer at Ron. “Are you sure you want to go? You don’t _have_ to leave me. I could take you back to my place for the night...”   
  
Something inside Ron panged at that, at the implication that he was wanted, and the vindication of being wanted, and the satisfaction of being wanted by someone other than a Malfoy.   
  
Ron leaned in, grabbed the stranger by the front of his robes and give him a drunken, sour kiss. It couldn’t have been good—not for the other bloke, not with Ron’s tongue slowed by drink, his breath likely intolerable—but still he kissed back, rough and somehow smug.   
  
He pulled away wetly, smiling at Ron. “More?”   
  
Ron felt sick again, and he shook his head.   
  
“You’re sure?”   
  
“I’ve got a boyfriend,” he replied, feeling stupid. He’d never called Malfoy his boyfriend, not the least because it sounded so schoolgirl-ish. “I’ve got someone,” he tried again.   
  
The man looked rather nonplussed. “I see.”   
  
In his cynicism, he looked awfully familiar. With eyes all squinty from the dark and drink, Ron could have sworn that the man sounded and carried himself like a Malfoy. He shook his head a bit, trying to clear it. No. No. That wasn’t possible. He’d have known. Except he hadn’t lain eyes on Draco in a good six years now, and the man had known exactly where to take Ron without even asking, and...no.   
  
Ron retched into the garden, while from the corner of his eye he could see the stranger looking on with a mixture of superiority and satisfaction. “Well. I suppose it’s enough to know you didn’t, even though you could have,” he said finally in a quiet voice.   
  
Ron wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Huh?”   
  
“I’ll just be going, then,” the man said, mounting his broom.   
  
Ron nodded tiredly. “Thanks for the lift,” he croaked.   
  
He eventually stumbled into the Manor and took several deep breaths. The front hall was shadowed and cool, the portraits dozing in their frames, the mounted swords, daggers and axes less menacing than usual, their blades dark and dull without the gleam of torchlight. There was an empty plinth nearby that he gazed at in perplexity, until he realized that the bronze bust that used to be there was gone. He wondered vaguely what had happened to it.   
  
Just as Ron had finally pulled himself together and was ready to go on upstairs, a _ting_ of metal on metal made him freeze, the flesh on the back of his neck cold and crawly. He swallowed hard.   
  
“You’re very late this evening,” Lucius’ honeyed voice observed.   
  
Ron turned to find the man behind him, imposing, his eyes wicked and full of—   
  
A hand reached out and grabbed the front of Ron’s robes. He was dragged further into the mansion, throat tight and not working, feet stumbling over one another. Lucius led him—jerked him along—until they’d reached the library. He slammed Ron down onto one of the low tables.   
  
Ron made a noise and tried to gain his feet, but Lucius had him firmly by the back of the neck. “There are hundreds of volumes filled with useful information in this room alone,” the man informed him. “Three quite near your head. It’s such a pity you can’t pick anything up by osmosis. It’s such a _shame_ that you never seem to take advantage of the many gifts offered you.” Lucius let out a long breath. “And it’s such a mistake to assume that you’ll not be punished for it.”   
  
Ron grunted, bracing one hand on the flat, glossy surface of the table and scrambling for his wand with the other.   
  
“Already confiscated,” Lucius told him. Bloody bastard could read minds.   
  
As he squirmed, Ron felt something cold at the nape of his neck, and he jumped a little. “What the hell is that?” He turned his head to see Lucius’ smile—that stubborn, proud arrogant mouth—and had to resist the urge to breach the short distance between them. He wanted those lips on his own; he wanted that mouth.   
  
It wasn’t that Ron wasn’t angry. It was just that he _enjoyed_ being angry. He liked having this fire in his belly, this deserved indignation; he liked screaming and hexing and throwing things.   
  
He even, on some level, liked it that he never won. “Let go of me, you bastard,” he growled, trying to yank away, but Lucius had him pinned—pinned—and he felt so good, so vulnerable and exhilarated and brimming with raw _need_.   
  
Lucius’ lip lifted in disgust, and he didn’t deign to answer.   
  
Ron felt his breath quicken. Fuck if he didn’t like that burn, that fire, that sneer and superiority. It gave him something to fight, something to rage against.   
  
It was sex without sex.   
  
Ron wondered if he could come from this, from pure fury.   
  
Lucius reached around, fiddling with Ron’s collar, undoing his robes, tugging them down his shoulders. He ran the icy _something_ down Ron’s spine, and Ron jerked and yelped. “Don’t worry...you’ll soon warm the dagger,” Lucius said quite casually.   
  
Ron felt the cold in an entirely new place now—the pit of his stomach. “ _Dagger_?” he repeated incredulously. “Are you mad?”   
  
The man ignored him, peeling off clothes until all the fabric was tangled round Ron’s ankles, and could go no further because of his shoes. “No. I’m _angry_ ,” Lucius said. The dagger, apparently still in its sheath (for there was only blunt, chilled metal with no edge) grazed his shoulder blade, slipping over his skin, and then Lucius hot tongue blazed over the same path.   
  
Ron’s breath came hard and fast, and he shut his eyes. The dagger played over his hipbone and gently brushed his thigh. It circled his half-erect penis, and he looked down to see that the blade was, indeed, still sheathed. It was probably one of the ornamental weapons from the front room, and hadn’t been out of its scabbard for years. It had probably been magically set that way, probably wouldn’t come loose if you pried at it, probably perfectly safe.   
  
Probably.   
  
Lucius’ hand was on Ron’s shoulder, turning him, and Ron leaned back against the table, resting on his elbows. His knees weakened as the dagger slipped further down, almost silky against the skin behind his knee. Lucius slipped further down, too, taking Ron’s prick into his mouth, licking and sucking it to full hardness.   
  
Ron let out a strangled noise, fingers rumpling Lucius’ hair as he clumsily clutched the man’s head. Distantly, Ron could hear his own voice, hoarse and needy, telling Lucius how fucking good it felt, how bad he needed it. It was incredibly humiliating, but he couldn’t seem to stop babbling, so he decided to stop listening instead.   
  
Lucius drew off, looking up at Ron with a touch of amusement. He licked the dagger, running the flat of his tongue along the vines and cinquefoil blossoms etched on its surface. Then the tip of the scabbard skidded down the underside of Ron’s prick, sweeping lightly over his balls and making them draw up, wiggled between his cheeks and—   
  
“Don’t—” Ron croaked, but it was already in him, blunt and warmer than he though it would be. Ron made to push Lucius away, but his hands were neatly captured and held tight. Giving up, he leaned more heavily on the table, eyes unfocussed as the object worked its way inside of him. One leg had moved of its own accord, knee falling to the side, giving Lucius better access to his entrance.   
  
“I know you’re enjoying yourself,” Lucius’ voice informed him, thick with laughter.   
  
Ron swallowed hard. “I’m not,” he grunted, despite the evidence.   
  
“Apart from it being wholly inconceivable that anyone would _not_ enjoy my ministrations, the fact that you’ve spread your legs like a whore is rather a giveaway,” the man replied smoothly. “You enjoy being used as a sheath. A sheath within a sheath,” he muttered, placing almost delicate kisses to the soft skin of Ron’s stomach. “ _Disjunge_.”   
  
Ron shuddered as Lucius withdrew the dagger, leaving the hilt still buried in Ron’s body. Instead of the cold grip of fear, Ron felt a thrill of anticipation as Lucius spiralled the blade round his thigh, the sharp tip just scratching his skin.   
  
“You really are a fuckhead,” Ron observed tensely.   
  
The dagger traced the swell of his calf, circled an ankle, flickered in between freckled toes. Then Lucius stood abruptly, leaning far over Ron and causing him to fall back, resting his full weight on the table. Ron drew a sharp breath as the blade followed the line of his jaw. He could tell he’d been cut, though it was no worse than the sting he might giving himself shaving with a Muggle razor. “Stop it,” he hissed.   
  
Lucius’ nose just touched his own, and then Ron felt something sharp running over his lower _lip_ , for fuck’s sake. He gripped the tabletop, trembling with anger and desire. The slim edge of the dagger sought its way past the seam of his mouth, and his lips parted, eager to get away from that dangerous edge. But oh, that was _worse_ , because he hadn’t closed his teeth in time, and now the metal was circling his tongue...but it seemed to be the flat edge slipping over the muscle, and Ron began to relax.   
  
Lucius’ smile flashed, and Ron had only an instant for misgivings before sharp pain blossomed on the tip of his tongue. Warmth spread through his mouth, and he tasted the unpleasant tang of blood. It was exactly like having bitten his tongue rather badly.   
  
“Ow! Damn it,” he swore, shoving Lucius away and covering his mouth. “You fucking, fucking _bastard_!”   
  
If the man had looked even a little contrite, Ron would have thought the end of the world nigh. Instead his expression was predictably self-satisfied, his voice as cutting as any knife as he asked, “Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?”   
  
“No,” Ron said sullenly, trying to hold the man off, but a hand had curled round the back of his neck, pulling him relentlessly forward. His hand was pulled away from his face, and Lucius’ lips crushed against his own, tongue flicking out and wetting Ron’s lips.   
  
Ron moaned, reluctantly opening his mouth, letting Lucius pet his wounded tongue, drawing it out into the man’s own mouth to be sucked clean.   
  
It was the most perverted thing Lucius had ever done to him, and their list of sexual experiments was pretty long.   
  
With the dagger hilt still inside him, and Lucius’ mouth hot and greedy on his own, Ron felt his hips beginning to lift into the air as he tried to find friction. He rutted against Lucius’ hip, revelling in the sensation of his cock rubbing against the expensive fabric of the man’s robes.   
  
One of his hands clasped Lucius’ shoulder. Ron’s stomach tightened and his breath became ragged. He ground himself against Lucius’ body, feeling his heart thudding, every beat a percussion that forced another high, another rush of blood to his ears. He forgot everything but the rhythm of his body, the climax building in every nerve and tense muscle.   
  
Suddenly there was sharp pain, and he cried out. Lucius had grabbed the base of his cock, squeezing viciously. “Your seed stays put until your bank account fills up,” the man told him, and then he was gone, a brief sweep of robes against Ron’s overheated flesh and a flash of pale hair as he passed through the doorway.   
  
Ron dug the scabbard out of his arse and began jerking off frantically. He was just _sure_ he could come, if only he didn’t let himself think about it. If only he didn’t get angry. If only he could _punch Lucius’ bloody face in_.   
  
Wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand, Ron closed his eyes, trying desperately to forget that he was involved with the biggest fucking sadist since Voldemort.

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
Ron took a walk in Diagon Alley after work the next day, still trying to cool off. He couldn’t fathom why the issue of money had suddenly become so important to Lucius. Even if the man had lost two-thirds of his riches overnight in some bad investment or something, they’d still have more than enough to live on for the rest of their lives. Wouldn’t they?   
  
He stared at the new brooms in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies for a while, not really taking anything in. When he finally turned to leave, Ron walked smack into someone, knocking them to the ground. “Sorry,” he said quickly, feeling guilty about being too annoyed to have paid attention to where he was going. He reached down, offering a hand. “Need help up?”   
  
The bloke looked up, glaring, and Ron was horrified to see that pale, pointy face framed by silvery hair. “You! You bastard! I just bought these robes!” Draco screeched.   
  
“Stop squalling!” Ron demanded. “It wasn’t as though I meant to,” he added, pulling Draco to his feet.   
  
Draco brushed himself off, still looking furious. “Well. Actually, it’s all for the best that I ran into you. I needed to speak with you anyway.”   
  
Ron sighed. All he needed was yet another fight with Draco about his relationship with Lucius. Despite his attraction to the elder Malfoy, he held nothing but scorn for Draco, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Their last fight had happened more than six years ago, and ended with Ron walking around with his ear in his pocket for a week, and Draco somewhere in the South Pacific refusing to speak to his father. “I don’t need this right now,” Ron mumbled. “I didn’t even know you were in town.”   
  
“Bollocks. You were sticking your tongue down my throat just last night.”   
  
“I wasn’t!” The memory of the night before came flooding back, bringing fire to Ron’s cheeks. “Oh, _shit_.”   
  
Draco scowled. “You quite liked it at the time,” he pointed out.   
  
“ _You_ were the one who came on to me!” Ron cried defensively. “Oh, heaping mounds of _fuck_. He’s going to _kill_ me.”   
  
Draco waved dismissively. “Stop _squalling_ ,” he sneered. “I wasn’t looking for you for that, anyway.”   
  
“Well, _good_ , because you weren’t going to _get_ any of that!” Ron said.   
  
Rubbing his forehead, Draco sighed. “I suppose you love him?”   
  
This brought Ron up short, and he looked nervously round the street. No one seemed to be paying any attention.   
  
“Or do you only love him in private, or when it suits you, or to piss me off?” Draco demanded.   
  
“Fine, yes, I love him. I’d bloody well have to, to put up with him. Why are you even asking me that?” The whole conversation was so surreal that Ron could barely believe it.   
  
Draco didn’t answer right away. He just stood, gazing into the distance thoughtfully, his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world as though he just didn’t have anything better to do. “I thought you might,” he sighed eventually. “I didn’t think you recognised me last night, but you wouldn’t come home with me, even though I could tell you wanted to.”   
  
Ron’s ears were burning, and he shrugged. “So what?”   
  
“So why are you letting them do this to him?”   
  
“Do what?” Ron was bewildered. Who was doing anything to Lucius Malfoy? Who would believe they could get away with it?   
  
“The fucking Ministry, that’s who! Don’t tell me you didn’t even _know_. What kind of staggering idiot lets his own employer seize his lover’s assets—without even noticing? Oh, but I suppose they only employ you for looks, anyway. No one expects you to actually _do_ anything, seeing how you’re the great Potter’s friend.”   
  
“Shut up, Malfoy! What are you on about?”   
  
“Ever since he got out of Azkaban, it’s been lawsuit after lawsuit,” Draco explained.   
  
“I know that. But maybe he _should_ pay restitution for some of what happened. I mean, there were deaths that could have been prevented if he’d spoken up.”   
  
“Well, they want to take _everything_ ,” Draco snarled. “The creditors are circling like buzzards! And obviously I’m a bit put off by that, since I stand to inherit. One would think you might object as well, considering the alternative is for the two of you to live off of your parents.”   
  
For a moment Ron was thrown by the visual. The only way Arthur Weasley would break bread with Lucius Malfoy would be by doing so over the man’s head. His mum would cry over the noises coming from Ron’s room at night, and—Ron shook his head and started to give the situation some thought. Was _that_ why Lucius was so bent on forcing him becoming the breadwinner?   
  
Come to think of it, Ron didn’t even know exactly how much money the man had. He’d always just sort of taken it for granted that Lucius Malfoy was really loaded, in the same way that grass was green.   
  
Feeling guilty, he kicked a pebble and watched it go skidding into the gutter. Had he got used to being a kept man? Lucius had paid all the bills for so long that Ron hardly noticed anymore. He kind of tended to think it was his just due for putting up with so much bollocks from the man.   
  
Frankly, having taken it up the arse _just once_ without lube made him feel Lucius could very well go on paying Ron’s way for the rest of his life.   
  
But strangely, though Ron hadn’t minded _being_ a kept man, part of him rather liked the idea of taking care of Lucius, too.   
  
“I’ll do it,” he said aloud.   
  
Draco looked at him as if he were crazy. “Dare I ask what you’re on about now?”   
  
Ron was already running down the street, robes flapping behind him. “Never mind,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of things!”   
  
“But where are you going?” Draco yelled after him.   
  
Grinning, Ron continued to run. “Gringotts!” he shouted. “I’ve got money to invest! People to talk to! Arrangements to make!”

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
It was a different greeting than he’d been getting used to. In fact, at first there was no greeting at all. Ron had to search the Manor for Lucius, slipping from tasteful, quiet room to tasteful, quiet room, the haughty eyes of the portraits following him everywhere.   
  
He finally found the man in the drawing room, reclining against plump, velvet cushions and sipping a glass of wine as he read the paper. He looked relaxed; his hair was down, his feet were up, and his face was free of tension.   
  
Ron cleared his throat, and grey eyes slowly looked up from the newsprint. “Ah, you’re home. Would you care to join me in a glass of wine?”   
  
Ron was secretly thrilled. For all that he loved being spanked and sucked and sexed up in every context imaginable, it was infinitely rarer and more precious that Lucius simply spoke to him as if one adult to another.   
  
“Yes, please,” he said, seating himself in a nearby chair. A house elf popped into existence just long enough to offer a glass, then popped back into the ether again. Ron shifted slightly in his seat, wondering how to broach the subject of money, especially when the mood was so congenial.   
  
“You’ll like that,” Lucius opined. “It’s a lovely chardonnay from Meursault, and we both know how you enjoy chardonnay.” He smiled slightly. “I’d tell you more, but it would only bore you.”   
  
Blushing slightly, Ron swirled the golden liquid round the bottom of the glass. “’m sorry I’m not cultured like you are,” he mumbled.   
  
“Think nothing of it,” Lucius said dismissively, sitting forward and plucking the un-tasted drink from Ron’s hand and setting it lightly aside. He ran a gentle finger down Ron’s jaw. “You have your own special charms,” he said softly, and Ron suddenly realized that he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been getting laid for the past half-month.   
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucius leaned in and kissed him, his hair falling forward like a silk curtain, just brushing Ron’s warm cheeks. Ron sighed through his nose, feeling Lucius’ hand gliding down his chest.   
  
He pulled away slightly, looking up at the man through a haze of lust. This was the gentle side of Lucius Malfoy, the side that was all kid gloves that held Ron’s hand in public, caressing the skin between his thumb and forefinger, the side that bought inordinately expensive gifts for his only son, the side that made donations to St. Mungo’s, the side that spoke quietly of loss and grief and peace.   
  
Impulsively, Ron leaned up and kissed the man again, warm mouths pressed together, Lucius’ nimble tongue circling his own.   
  
“I like it when you’re like this,” Ron said when they pulled apart. “I wish you’d be like this more often.”   
  
Lucius gave him the famous Malfoy smirk and replied, “Then give me _incentive_ to be this way more often.” He turned Ron’s head, kissing his ear, his hands wandering and exploring the valleys and crags and crevasses of Ron’s body. His thumb rubbed against the spot on Ron’s chin that had been missed by the morning’s shaving charm, his teeth scraped delicately along the column of Ron’s throat.   
  
It felt good. Clean, somehow. It was like being outside and feeling a warm breeze ripple through his hair. Nothing was heavy, here. The darkness and anger and tension had all seemed to evaporate.   
  
“When did you—you looked at the account?” Ron asked.   
  
Lucius paused. “I check it daily. You’ve done very well.”   
  
Ron was only able to bear the approval in the man’s eyes for a moment before looking away, slightly embarrassed. “I only earned a _little_ ,” he protested shyly.   
  
“You did very well for only having put a day’s worth of work into it,” Lucius assured him. A broad hand rubbed Ron’s shoulder. “You made an effort. I’m very glad for that.” A smile lurked at the edges of his mouth. “And I do believe I promised to reward you when you’d done well. What would you like?”   
  
Ron pushed Lucius back, and with good humour, the man allowed himself to be propelled back to the chaise lounge he’d been sprawled on a moment ago. He dropped gracefully onto the cushions, arms spread wide, inviting Ron to follow him down.   
  
Ron did so, kissing him seductively, repeatedly, softer and slower each time. “I like the sex, but there’s something I’d like even more,” he managed when he paused for air.   
  
Lucius looked rather wry at this and gestured for him to go on. “You’ll get the sex in any case. What else?”   
  
Ron shifted, trying to think how to word things.   
  
“Ah. A new racing broom? A villa in Italy? That Secrecy Sensor I caught you ogling when last I brought you shopping in Knockturn? Mind you, it won’t work in Malfoy Manor; it’d probably be over-stimulated and malfunction.”   
  
“Not that. Not a thing. I just—I’d like to invite Draco to brunch sometime. Or dinner. Whatever.”   
  
Lucius looked nonplussed. “You’re carrying the role of the nurturing stepmother a bit too far, I think,” he warned.   
  
“It’s not that! It’s just—he really cares about you. I got so caught up in my own feelings for you that I might have overlooked that. I feel sort of bad that I’m the reason the two of you haven’t spoken in so long. I know we’ll never be best friends, but I’d like you to be able to get on with him, at least.”   
  
“And this isn’t all just an elaborate plot to get your tongue down his throat again?”   
  
“No! I—what? How did you know about that?” Realization dawned. “You were watching from one of the windows, weren’t you?”   
  
“I might have been.” Lucius refused to meet his gaze. “I was worried. You were late. Anything might have happened. Of course, seeing you entangled with Draco would have seemed one of the more farfetched possibilities, but—”   
  
“I didn’t like it,” Ron quickly assured him. “It was definitely...lacking.”   
  
Lucius’ lips quirked. “Good. As much as I’ve spoiled my son over the years, I don’t believe I’m willing to give you up.” He gently splayed a hand on Ron’s chest, inexorably increasing the pressure until Ron gave, leaning back, letting Lucius rise from below him like redemption itself.   
  
Ron was thrown back against the cushions, Lucius kissing him hungrily. Ron reached up, running fingers through glossy strands of hair, something that always calmed his lover. “Stop it,” Lucius eventually admonished. “You’ll put me to sleep.”   
  
Ron grinned, his hands trailing down to undress the man. “Not likely,” he said cheekily.   
  
Lucius let out a huff of air, his expression calculated to be cool, and Ron hid a satisfied smile, hands jerkily working to undress the man. He wished he could be graceful like the Malfoys, but he knew Lucius liked him the way he was—more or less. Even now, feigning indifference, the man’s body was tense, his pulse quick, a slight flush staining his pale, aristocratic cheekbones.   
  
“You’re perfect,” Ron purred, pressing small, wet kisses to the man’s chest. Lucius’ hand rose, running a gloriously cool fingertip along Ron’s warm cheek. “Let me take care of you,” Ron pleaded huskily.   
  
Lucius raised an eyebrow, but acquiesced to his new game graciously, sitting back on his haunches, allowing Ron’s needy hands to touch, to sweep and stroke his chest, his shoulders. Ron undressed him slowly, button by button, hungrily watching as his pale, smooth skin was revealed.   
  
Lucius rarely undressed completely, preferring to remain cloaked, covered by bedclothes, or in the armour of shadow. It always caused a jolt of lust to shoot through Ron’s stomach to see him unclothed. He often liked to spy on the man in the shower, finding weak excuses to be nearby, to see the water bead on his chest, to watch it run in rivulets from the tips of his long hair down his back, washing soapy bubbles over the perfection of his thighs and arse.   
  
Ron swallowed, finally freeing the man from his robe, flinging it away, working on getting his boxers down, reaching in ahead of time because he couldn’t wait even that long...the groan Lucius made sent a pleasurable shudder through him. God, what a deliciously obscene noise. Ron caressed his length, feeling its heat and weight in his palm, worth more than its weight in gold.   
  
“If you want to take care of me, I require more than a helping hand,” the man said abruptly, pressing Ron to the cushions, kissing him deeply. Suddenly Ron felt a rush of cold air over his body, and he struggled to pull Lucius closer. Lucius had always preferred banishing spells when he was eager, and Ron had become used to the feeling of exposure and defencelessness.   
  
His back arched as Lucius pulled away, drawing a finger down his sternum, his stomach, dipping lightly into his bellybutton, swirling through the ruddy hair below. Ron was frantic for release, over-sensitised by the fingers dancing over his flushed body. He could feel his nipples hardening, and Lucius bent down to take one in his mouth, nipping it to aching pleasure.   
  
The man’s wand was poised at his entrance, flooding his channel with warm, slick lubricant. Lucius _was_ eager— _so_ eager; Ron could feel the pulse of his body, the tremor of his urgency as he held himself off, stretching Ron, putting his needs first.   
  
“ _Now_ ,” Ron demanded, trying to push Lucius’ hand away. He’d come otherwise, and he didn’t want to climax at that. “I want to have you in me when I come,” he said in a strangled voice.   
  
Lucius eyes raked over him, judging him ready. He was on Ron, _in_ him, quickly, with a forceful thrust. It made Ron’s eyes water, but the blossoming pain was already tinged with sweetness, and he bucked up into the man’s hand, his earnest blue eyes begging for more.   
  
They took their time, staving off the rush of lust to savour each moment. Ron drank in the sight of Lucius’ face contorted with ecstasy, yet somehow every bit as perfect as any cold, disdainful mask he’d ever worn. Lucius stroked Ron’s sweaty hair back from his face, murmuring about his bravery and tenacity, the heat of his body, the agility of his legs, wrapped round the man and pulling him deeper.   
  
They rocked together, enmity and contention lost in driving, plunging hips, arms that could only hold pleasure, spines curling and flexing, short grunts and gasps and long, drawn out groans.   
  
Ron came with a cry, bucking into Lucius’ hand, his mind going white and fuzzy. When he returned to himself, Lucius was staring at him with that frank hunger he so often had. Ron didn’t know how he ever inspired that heady expression, but he relished it all the same.   
  
“Kiss me,” he whispered, straining up toward the man, who met him halfway, cradling him, supporting him in an awkward, pounding embrace. For a moment, Lucius stilled. Then his lips were gone, the man’s head thrown back, his hips snapping one last time, his hair frozen in Ron’s memory as a shimmering arc of light.

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
“I noticed the mounted dragon’s head is gone from the study,” Ron noted. His head rested on the man’s arm, his leg falling asleep from being trapped under Lucius’ weight, but he would never dream of asking the man to move—not when everything felt this _right_ , even if it wasn’t exactly comfortable. Come to think of it, that summed up their entire relationship rather nicely, he thought.   
  
“Botilda Bode apparently had her eye on it for some time, and made me an offer.”   
  
“Bode...wasn’t that the name of the bloke from the Department of Mysteries? You Imperiused him into stealing the Prophecy, didn’t you? Didn’t he...die in St. Mungo’s?”   
  
“I don’t recall. It’s ancient history,” Lucius said tightly.   
  
Ron gave an exasperated sigh. “Whatever happened to that bronze bust of Alberic Grunnion that used to be in the front hall?”   
  
Lucius sniffed a little. “I got rid of the unsightly thing.”   
  
Ron gave up trying to tease the truth out. “I can fix things,” he blurted.   
  
Lucius didn’t speak, but an eyebrow rose expectantly.   
  
“I spoke with the goblins and some legal advisors and even Percy, and it would all be perfectly legal. But you’d have to trust me,” Ron added.   
  
Lucius shifted, his expression discomfitted. “I do trust you,” he replied quietly.   
  
Ron reached down, rummaging through his robes, then sat back up with a grin. “You’ll have to sign a waiver regarding the service,” he said. “I don’t reckon it’s considered legal for me to just hand it to you, all things considered.”   
  
Lucius took the parchment, eyes drifting down the lines of legal jargon before snapping up to meet Ron’s once more. The man’s face was white with fury. “I see. So you’re suing me. How, pray tell, does that ‘fix things?’”   
  
“No, no, no, don’t take it like that,” Ron pleaded, his hands up in an ‘I surrender’ fashion. “It’s the best way, trust me. Because once I obtain judgment and have it entered, you—er, can go ahead and pay me,” he finished lamely.   
  
Lucius stared, his silence relentless.   
  
“And then all your assets would be in my name, and none of the other lawsuits would matter.”   
  
Understanding began to dawn. “Who told you about the lawsuits?”   
  
“Draco. Who else?”   
  
“And you really think you’ve a chance at winning the judgment?”   
  
“Well, _yes_ , because you wouldn’t fight it. We could settle out of court. See? So you wouldn’t have to sell things to pay your creditors anymore.”   
  
Lucius continued to stare. “I...never would have thought you capable of such subterfuge. Not to mention the _thought_ you put into it. How very un-Gryffindor. I’m so very proud of you.”   
  
Ron grinned. “Night after night in the library trying to will away a hard on? I was bound to get something out of it. Besides, Draco helped a little.”   
  
“Did he? How?”   
  
“By whinging at me about how he was going to lose his inheritance if I didn’t do something.”   
  
“I don’t imagine that this is exactly the sort of thing he had in mind.”   
  
Ron’s smile only widened. “Don’t worry; he’ll still get his inheritance. If he’s nice enough to me, anyway.”   
  
“I only wanted to be certain you’d be able to take care of yourself,” Lucius noted.   
  
Ron rolled onto his side, fingers twisting a strand of silver hair. “I can do better than that,” he swore. “I can take care of both of us.”

OoOoOoOoO

  
  
“Welcome to Weasley Manor,” Ron said, gesturing pompously. “We’re so happy you could join us.”   
  
Draco stamped in the house, his mouth set in a grim line. “What is the meaning of this? I’ve been hearing the most vile rumours!”   
  
“This way,” Ron replied. “Take a seat. Tea?”   
  
“NO, I don’t want any damnable tea! I want my fucking inheritance!”   
  
“And you’ll likely get it,” Ron said calmly. “After all, Lucius and I are...er, ‘unlikely to issue progeny of our own’, and that means everything will revert to you. Eventually.”   
  
Draco threw him a ferociously unhappy look, much to Ron’s secret glee.   
  
“You have a good chance of outliving me. You’re a good three months younger.”   
  
“I’ll kill you and take my money _now_ ,” Draco snarled, lunging across the table.   
  
Lucius’ cane suddenly blocked him. “Now, now,” the man murmured, “this is not how it is done. You’re going to kill him? With witnesses who may or may not take your part? Sloppy, Draco. Exceedingly careless. You bide your time and poison him later. _That_ is the Malfoy way.”   
  
“Cute, Lucius, very cute,” Ron said, sniffing and stuffing a scone into his mouth. “You kner yer wuff me,” he added around a mouthful of food.   
  
Lucius pointedly ignored him. “Draco, you are a fine young man,” he said, placating. “You’ve done well for yourself the past several years, and I trust you will continue to do so. Ronald, on the other hand, is sadly lacking in every skill imaginable, save the occasional witless act of bravery. He needs me, and he needs my support.”   
  
Ron scowled, swallowing. “Hey, that isn’t fair! I’m supposed to be taking care of you now! You can’t go and flip things around on me!”   
  
“You see? Ingenuous as a lamb. It took me nearly a month to trick him into taking my things into his name. You don’t think I’m going to change my mind _now_? Besides, you’re well out of it. From now on, all my creditors will come after _him_. The least a caring father could give his son is a clean slate.”   
  
“There is that,” Draco allowed, slumping back in his chair with a sigh.   
  
“You won’t be completely cut off,” Lucius assured him dryly. “After all, I can’t trust a Gryffindor to make all the monetary decisions, can I?”   
  
Draco looked slightly happier at this, taking a sip of tea and managing an oily smirk over the brim of his cup. “Thank you, Father,” he said in a faux innocent tone.   
  
Ron ground his teeth, switching his glare from one Malfoy to the other.   
  
“Come now, don’t make such faces,” Lucius said, blowing gently on his tea. “After all, whatever expensive gifts I grace my son with, I give you _so_ much more.”   
  
Under the table, Ron felt something brush his leg, slipping up his inseam in a delightfully indecent way. He noted that the man’s snake-headed cane had disappeared from view. Ron’s ears began to heat. It occurred to him that there _were_ an awful lot of better things to have between one’s legs than the latest broomstick, and there were things in life far more valuable than Galleons.   
  
Ron reached across the table, taking the man’s hand and ignoring Draco’s huff of protest. “You’ve always given me what I needed.” He paused long enough to smile and offered the man a wink. “But you know what? I _earned_ it.”


End file.
